Issue #106. June 23rd - July 7th, 2005

Cafe
Population eighteen hundred and forty one. A town so small it still uses angle parking with plenty of available spaces. And to my shocking disbelief, there wasn't a parking meter anywhere. How could any city, town or village survive without miserly scrounging coinage from its citizens? It seemed impossible.
By Daniel Reid

Niggles
It is one of those argumentative days today. One of those heavy, humid grey days. The kind of day which turns your shoulders to lead and the whole world niggles at each other.
By Rachel Queen

Historic Deals
Everyone wants to make poverty history these days – and it’s a very positive aim to have. The question is - how can we do it?
By Duncan McFarlane

Record review: Kicker (Our Wild Mercury Years )
Railing against aloof coolness, insincerity and resolute cynicism, Kicker embrace aspects of eighties pop, northern soul and the underground in equal measure, and with it they produce thrilling, inspiring and breathtaking three minute slices of real life.
By Johnny Mac

Live review:A Hawk and a Hacksaw / Mawda / Ed Gillet - Coventry Tin Angel, Monday 6th
Using a laptop to create loops of sound, he opens with a fascinating insight into how tracks can be layered and built up by recording spurts of various instruments and adding them, one by one, to the mix. It's not the most visual of entertainment, but the deconstruction of such music into its component parts is welcome demystification.
By Grant Lakeland

Cafe

There I was. I had no idea how I arrived, but I needed to stop. I was standing outside the “Mainstreet Cafe” in downtown Nanton, Alberta. Population eighteen hundred and forty one. A town so small it still uses angle parking with plenty of available spaces. And to my shocking disbelief, there wasn’t a parking meter anywhere. How could any city, town or village survive without miserly scrounging coinage from its citizens? It seemed impossible.

Just as I was struggling with this big city unlikelihood, a very young man dressed in denim stood before me and asked if I had any spare change because he was in dire need of coffee. Icy rain was pelting the both of us, so I gathered the java would provide warmth. I told him I had no cash on me, but he could join me inside for a cup of coffee. I think he was a little sceptical, but his desperation outweighed his distrust. He accepted.

I opened the door and we headed inside under the blinking neon “Mainstreet Cafe” sign. We took a booth seat next to a large window that overlooked the sparse meterless main street. We sat for a few minutes with folded hands on the table. I could smell the ammonia from the previous cleaning, sticking in my nostrils like summer dust. We sat silent, waiting for a break in the quiet air. Luckily the waitress popped out of nowhere and cracked the ice jam.

“Hey boys, wadda ya have?” She wore black polyester slacks and around her waist was an apron with pockets for her carbon copy order pad and fountain pen, which had left a black smudge on her otherwise spotless uniform.
“Coffee please,” we said in unison. The waitress turned and as she walked I could hear the nylon squeak of her pants. I looked around the cafe. It was immaculate, not a crumb anywhere. I watched our waitress retrieve the coffee from a giant metallic machine. On either side of the apparatus stood two full coffee pots, one trimmed in orange and on the top burner sat another full pot. There were three full pots of coffee, which I found strange because we were the only people in the cafe.

I looked at my companion whose downcast eyes never left the tabletop. I wasn’t sure if it was due to embarrassment or shyness. I had to stop this unsocial behaviour, so I stuck out my hand and said, rather boisterously, “My name’s Gabe.”
Our hands met half way. “Frank Yellow Horn,” came the forlorn reply.
“So what brings you to this lovely island on the highway?” I was trying my best to be upbeat.
He caught my cheeriness and moved his eyes to the painting behind my head. “I’m on my way up north to get a job on the rigs.”
He didn’t look old enough to get a social security card let alone a job. The waitress came back and slapped two cups of coffee on the table. The tar like liquid spilt over the cup’s brim, filling the saucer’s circular indentation. The polyester pants whispered as she turned and headed back to the coffee machine.
I took a sip of the crude oil coffee. The concoction was so bitter it nearly made me gag. I plucked two ammonia-scented menus hidden behind the gleaming napkin dispenser. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” Smiling, I handed the boy a menu. He reluctantly took it.
“Thanks Mister. I really appreciate it. I haven’t eaten a thing for days.”
We put the menus down and instantly the waitress appeared.

“Hey boys, wadda ya have?”
“I’d love a burger and fries,” I said.
“Same for me,” replied the youngster as the waitress disappeared as quickly as she appeared.
“So, up north to work on the rigs, eh?” I said this rather quickly like a man who had drunk innumerable cups of coffee. I needed to keep the tempo moving.
“Yea, I’ve been trying to hitch a ride, but no takers. I think I’ve walked nearly two hundred clicks.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” I could see the hardened resolve in his eyes.

Our food arrived. I expected Frank to devour his meal, but he ate his food slowly, enjoying each morsel. I, on the other hand, did an excellent ravenous dog imitation. When I finished, Frank was only half done. I waited for him to finish as I drank my coffee, cold from the amount of cream I used to remove the strychnine bitterness and the abyss blackness.
“Not bad, eh?” I asked after he had finished.
“Not bad at all and thanks again. So what about you? Why are you here? For the coffee?” He said, smiling at his joke. It’s funny how your mood changes on a full stomach.
“Me? Well, I got sick and tired of looking at a computer screen all day. I still can’t believe how anti-social that job was, people expressing emotion with icons, not hearing a voice all day just a mechanical keyboard clack. The sound still haunts me. So I packed some stuff in my car and I’m going as far south as my credit cards will take me.”

The waitress came back and replaced the dirty dishes with a bill. I pulled my wallet out and randomly grabbed a piece of plastic. The boy looked relieved when I put the card on top of the bill. Instantly the waitress appeared to collect the plastic and paper.
“Thanks again for the meal. You’re pretty cool for an old guy.” He was extremely polite.
“Hey don’t thank me. Thank the bank.” We raised our cups and toasted to the bank, but we didn’t dare take a sip.
We went outside and shook hands. I got into my car and tilted the rear view mirror, watching Frank go on his quest north. I started the engine and headed south.

Daniel Reid

Niggles

I live on the third floor of a six-storey building. I have my desk in front of a window I have never been able to open. It faces the street, the rain and the people shouting at each other about whose turn it is to do the washing up tonight of all things. Until 20 minutes ago I was sitting at my desk watching them.

It is one of those argumentative days today. One of those heavy, humid grey days. The kind of day which turns your shoulders to lead and the whole world niggles at each other. I watched the street below me sweating and steaming from a thunderstorm, which lasted approximately 12 minutes. Not long enough to cool the earth, long enough to turn the humidity up an irritating notch.

For most of the day the air has been prickling with electric static. Thick heavy clouds have been bearing down upon us reminding us that they are going to burst at any minute so don't even think about leaving the house without carrying a raincoat. Until 20 minutes ago I was struggling to keep my eyes open. Working on things I did not want to be working on, plodding along, trying to ignore the ache in my feet and the twitch that has develop in my forehead. And although I was on my own and technically it takes two to have an argument I was letting that stop me join in the spirit of the day.

But then 20 minutes ago you walked into the room. Your smile cutting through the air like a laser guided missile. "It's going to rain! Hurry up!" I looked at you like you were mad but you grasped my hand and dragged me to the park.

The rain was warm, almost too warm. Big drops fell onto our jackets and onto our shoes and onto our hair but we refused to put our hoods up for anybody or anything.

We were the only ones crazy enough to be walking in the rain. We walked around the park, not missing out a single corner, not rushing to get home, not worrying that the rain was soaking through to our skin. We watched a bunch of seagulls sitting in the middle and talked about things you can only talk about when you are soaked to the skin.

And as we walked home, shoes filled with water, I caught you eye and you smiled. And at that moment that was everything I've ever needed.

Rachel Queen

(More by this author)

How do we make poverty history? – The G8 and Third World Debt

Everyone wants to make poverty history these days – and it’s a very positive aim to have. The question is - how can we do it?

The G8’s commitment to scrap the debts of 11 of the poorest indebted countries would be welcome if it didn’t come with strings attached which, if they aren’t removed, will result in even larger debts for these countries in the future.

Earlier this year Britain’s International Development Secretary Hilary Benn MP announced that Britain would no longer make aid conditional on recipient governments opening up their markets to our companies or on disastrous aid-funded privatisation schemes like the ones which resulted in many South Africans being unable to afford clean water after firms including Biwater and Northumbrian water started metering their water supply. Thousands of people were left with no choice but to drink dirty water . This caused Cholera epidemics and many deaths.

Unfortunately the G8 Finance Ministers’ ‘historic’ statement on June 11th imposed exactly these kind of conditions on debt relief. The second paragraph of the statement demands “the elimination of impediments to private investment, both domestic and foreign”.

This echoed President Bush who stated in his press conference with Tony Blair that “We're really not interested in supporting a government that doesn't have open economies and open markets”.

Blair agreed that “ “it's not a something-for-nothing deal.” .

Debt relief is definitely a good thing and will save lives. It will mean third world governments no longer have to spend money they could be spending on health and education on paying interest on foreign debts.

However if the cost is privatisation and opening their markets to big companies it may do as much harm as good within a few years – and result in even bigger debts building up and more lives being lost.

The conditions on ending the debt and conditions on aid have to be changed from ones which benefit big firms to ones which benefit the people of these countries. Making aid and debt relief conditional on fair elections, human rights, increased minimum wages, decent working conditions and environmental protection would be much more beneficial than linking it to privatisation and free trade.

In fact in its current form this isn’t something new and wonderful – it’s more of the same. Back in 2002 President Bush was proposing extra foreign aid for countries that “open their markets” .

The idea now is basically the same. Use offers of debt relief as leverage to open up markets to our firms and demand privatisation so our companies can buy up raw material supplies, industries – and even basic necessities like water.

There is no way indigenous African businesses can compete with multinational companies as the Finance Ministers half acknowledged in the fifth paragraph of their statement which says “Some countries lack the capacity to produce and deliver goods to international markets competitively”.

If the EU also opens its markets to third world exports this will certainly benefit the multinationals but it’s unlikely to benefit anyone else. Free trade and privatisation are not effective means of reducing poverty. If they were then over 10% of Americans wouldn’t be in poverty and Britain wouldn’t have one of the highest levels of child poverty in the EU after 50 years of economic growth.

Take a look at the effects of EU enlargement for instance. Far from reducing poverty it has mainly benefited the multinationals who have re-located employment East into the new member states where they can pay lower wages for the same work.

Employees in Poland and other Eastern countries don’t get decent wages – and many in western EU countries become unemployed as their jobs go East. The same could happen on a much bigger scale if all trade barriers between the developed and third world countries are removed.

The theory is that this will only happen in certain sectors with each country able to develop a specialisation in the sectors that it’s best at. For instance Britain has lost most of its manufacturing base – but is meant to be able to make up for this by the growth of its service and financial sectors.

In fact banking and call centre jobs are now being moved to India by firms like HSBC.

Free trade without international agreements on minimum wages and working conditions will simply accelerate this process. It won’t end poverty in the third world – though it will increase poverty and unemployment in the ‘developed’ world.

We’re told we must make sacrifices and accept a reduced standard of living to help the poorest people in the world. In fact we’re being asked to make sacrifices to benefit some of the wealthiest people in the world – big companies senior executives and major shareholders.

It’s right to campaign to end third world debt and obviously trading systems must change or else the debts will develop all over again. We have to be careful though to specify that we make it clear exactly what we’re campaigning for so that governments can’t provide a supposed solution which actually benefits no-one but the heads and major shareholders of the big companies as if it’s a means of ending poverty.

Duncan McFarlane

(More by this author)

A Hawk and a Hacksaw / Mawda / Ed Gillet - Coventry Tin Angel, Monday 6th

Another instalment of the Tin Angel's Bang/Click:Whirl festival sees the arrival from America of leftfield indie eccentric Jeremy Barnes under the alias of A Hawk and a Hacksaw. In keeping with the spirit of the event, though, two local artists kick the evening off.

Ed Gillet probably comes closest to the category of 'folktronica'. Using a laptop to create loops of sound, he opens with a fascinating insight into how tracks can be layered and built up by recording spurts of various instruments and adding them, one by one, to the mix. It's not the most visual of entertainment, but the deconstruction of such music into its component parts is welcome demystification. Personally, it moved me to dig out my Boards of Canada records and consider investigation of bands like Godspeed You! Black Emperor, music that I had previously found distant and impersonal.

Mawda are one of the leading products of the student band scene in Coventry, offering a slant on the standard four-piece formula by using three vocalists and a violin as well as guitar, bass and drums. Their songs offer an upbeat yet wry take on modern life, an outlook encapsulated perfectly by 'You Forgot Your Personality' and 'MSN Stole My Girlfriend'. They aren't all caustic anger, mind, and the strings come to the fore on the tender 'Spotlight'. With more wit and variety than most bands you'd care to name, and a growing profile around the country, expect to hear more from Mawda soon.

All of which leads to a quite unique headline act. Jeremy Barnes played drums for cult US indie-rock outfit Neutral Milk Hotel, but tonight comes with accordion, accompanied by a violin (actually, due to technical trouble and some swift cooperation, the same violin as Mawda). He resembles a one-man band with his assortment of drums and cymbals hit by drumsticks attached to various parts of his body. Add a bushy beard and the image is of morris dancing, but there's no thigh-slapping here. Receptive silence welcomes a performance often mournful and funereal of pace, but which rouses and swells until the sounds seems like it might burst out of the small venue. Near the end, Barnes sings a couple of tunes, unveiling a more than passable voice and some fiercely anti-war lyrics. As a finale he enters the crowd, sandwiching the audience between the two performers. Such a small touch is a fitting way to end an understated, but still magical display.